


A Loving Home; what we don't have

by Breanna_Song



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Auto-Responder | Lil Hal and Dirk Strider are Twins, Family Feels, Gun Violence in the first chapter, Hal is human, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Orphans, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sadstuck, Unreliable Narrator, growing up fic, they're all foster kids btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-07-12 00:57:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15984170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breanna_Song/pseuds/Breanna_Song
Summary: "Leave me alone, Dave. You never cared before, so I don't know why you would now."He drops his outstretched hand, and swallows the burning guilt washing over him like a fleet of pirates caught up in a storm. He searches desperately for a memory where it started, where he went off the deep end when he knew very well he couldn't swim. The waves crash into him and he goes down, sinking to the bottom of resentment and self-hatred.He tries to remember what he did.





	1. Fifteen

**Author's Note:**

> okay so how this story is gonna work is that it'll hop around time periods in dave's life ("fifteen" standing for when he was fifteen) and it won't b chronological bc im literally not planning this shit out at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first chapter includes roxy mishandling a gun by accident so warning for that. it doesn't hurt anyone, but it does go off  
>   
> rose isn't related to dave, shes older w/ a kid

He paces across the porch in quick, even steps. In front of him, there’s a beautiful driveway that curves down the road into the impassive, unfathomable woods that give him a bad feeling whenever he looks into them for too long. He clutches his old, crumbling phone, one of those that still had a keyboard attached, in his hand and tried not to let the desperateness he was feeling leak into his tone. 

He was supposed to be babysitting, supposed to be watching over his younger brothers and a curious, complex little girl, but he had to step away to take a work call from his boss. He raises his voice, pleading to the older, middle-aged woman, but she dismissed him and hung up. 

He brings his hand down and swallows. Dave’s trying his best to scrounge up enough cash to support himself to get himself a place to live, a steady income, and to look like he’s financially stable enough to take his younger brothers in. But he’s still only fifteen who lost two of his jobs in the past week because it’s illegal for him until he’s sixteen. 

His foster parent isn’t any help.

His last job is his babysitting one, which also happens to be his best one, and he only allowed to babysit his younger bros is because their foster guardian is an insightful, extremely busy, workaholic woman who took pity on him. ( He’s also pretty sure she’s an alcoholic, but he can’t risk getting social workers involved and them moving the twins to a place Dave can’t follow. After them splitting Dave away and sticking him where he is now, he doesn't trust them one bit. Adults in general aren't to be trusted.)

He looks at his phone. He got it for a Christmas present; it was brand new then, but that changed when it was thrown against the wall. Cracked on impact. He sighs, and maneuvers his shaking hands to put it back into his pocket. He shakes off the crushing defeat, the overwhelmingness that the universe is against him, and returns back into the mansion of a house. He shuts it quietly behind him, careful to lock it back up even though he’s sure that the children can unlock it on their own. 

It’s just his luck that he gets to babysit three genius toddlers. And he wouldn’t change it for the world.

He hears giggling, and turns back around, expecting to see Roxy with another tea party or another game of barbies saving kens. He doesn’t expect to see what he does and there’s a second of stillness, a twilight zone moment where he’s sure he’s seeing things, but the image stays the same. Roxy Lalonde, the daughter of Dirk and Hal’s foster mom, is pointing a fucking pistol at him. 

Her grin is infectious, but his heart still drops to the bottom of his (admittingly empty) stomach. Her curly hair creates a halo around her round face, and her strawberry milkshake eyes narrows in humourous playing. The weapon looks big in her tiny hands, that shake as she holds it, but she radiates a wall of confidence that only a little kid would have. 

“Woah, woah, woah,” he babbles, his thought process on how to deal with this goes out the window, there’s no planning only winging, “Roxy, hey, just… drop it. Just drop it, okay?”

He raises his hands up, leaning out to either push her to the ground or rip the gun out of her hands, or for her to hand it to him in the best circumstance. He tries to sound in charge, and in control, because he doesn’t think the safety is on and she can fucking hurt herself (or him) if she’s not careful. But either way, Roxy easily ignores his command, which is honestly easy for the six year old, and giggles. Her laugh is cute and normally he would aw for it, go down on his knees, hands over his heart aw, but not when she has a gun pointed at his chest. He doesn’t even know where  she got her tiny hands on the weapon, since he sure didn’t bring any (or have access to any), and Miss Lalonde was strick in her instructions to not even allow plastic knives near her, much less a killing-machine. (He hopes he doesn’t get fired for this, not just for the money, but he really doesn’t know how he’ll see Dirk and Hal otherwise.)

She shakes her head, smiling brightly, she’s mising one of her front teeth, “No, my toy. I found it!” He can’t really argue with her there, but he’s taken aback when she manages to hold it without her hands shaking with its weight. There’s a part of him that wants to throw in the towel and give up trying to understand children. Dirk reprogrammed the T.V. to only play My Little Pony, Hal can correctly go on and on about the numbers to Pi for hours if you don’t stop him, and now Roxy, who’s already managed to make his phone blast Pink Fluffy Unicorns Dancing on Rainbows at any random time, is pointing a gun at him when it should be impossible.  

He sees Hal walk out into the living room from the hallway, clutching a tablet that’s entirely too heavy for him, and tapping away on it quickly. Bright color, he might be playing another math game. He’s wearing an orange sweatvest over a grey button up, an outfit that his foster mom must’ve bought him, and Dave’s heart warms at the sight of him in it. He files it away for remembrance, because now’s not the time to be gushing over the cuteness of your brother. Roxy notices him too, and lights up automatically, because she’s always been a people person and she’ll drink up any attention she can get. She turns and points the gun at him. 

No, No, No, No, No.

He doesn’t think about it. He flashsteps over and scoops his smaller, lighter brother up and throws him into the rich, magenta couch. Hal’s tabet gets dropped, and for a second he looks entirely confused before he registers that the loud sound he heard was a gunshot. Dave heaves in breaths, his body not comprehending that the bullet missed him, and swallows the sandpaper in his mouth. Roxy drops the weapon. It lands on the fluffy, expensive rug with a light thud.

Her eyes are wide and watery. Dave reaches out to her, worried for her ears and stressed over Hal, but his wild circulating thoughts get cut short by a quiet voice. 

“Ouch.”

His head whips fast to Dirk, who’s standing at the end of the hallway with a frown.

Dave’s heart beat increases, his hands are shaking, and he almost cries in relief because Dirk’s perfectly unharmed. The only casualty is the bullet hole on Lil Cal’s cheek, splintered and cracking out.

He doesn't give himself time to be happy, since he has two other kids to check on.

Roxy runs up to him and buries her face in his knees, sobbing uncontrollably which makes Hal start to cry as well like clockwork. Dave scoops her up and holds her carefully, checks over her for any bruises or injuries, then carries her over to the couch where he checks over Hal. He’s brings them both close and they press into his sides, but he leaves room for Dirk, who climbs into his lap quickly. Dave’s definitely crying. And he knows- he knows he has to take them all to the doctor and tell Miss Lalonde what happened.

  
But let him calm ~~himself~~  them first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my thoughts r running wild w/ this


	2. fifteen.two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She gestures for him to take the chair sitting across from a large, glossy wood desk and he approaches it like a lamb preparing to be slaughtered. He sinks down in it, and swallows the lump in his throat, resting his forearms on the arms of the chair. She sits across from him, and takes out a notebook and a ballpoint pen. He directs his gaze down to his lap. 
> 
> She clears her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt title: rose is NOT a real therapist and this is kinda just, feels  
> child-abuse mention

Dave fidgets on the leather couch and picks at his jeans. They’re dirty, and have holes in them that aren’t meant to be fashionable. He thinks they were his dad’s at some point, but his memory is so foggy of what his father wore, so he can’t be sure. He pinches a stray thread and wraps it around his finger tightly, then breaks it off. The silence hanging over him in unbearable, breaking only in small fragments when he hears Roxy’s faint laughter down the hall. Sometimes he’ll hear Hal’s accompanying it. Rarely Dirk’s.

“I’m sure you’re aware why you’re here,” Miss Lalonde starts, her voice is dripping with sugar and ice, sticking to the insides of Dave’s ears and luring him to relaxation. But he can’t let his guard down, and somehow, he has a feeling it’s not supposed to be calming. She sharpens her ice into daggers and boils the sugar down to acid, it’s supposed to be undermining him that she’s speaking to him like he’s a child. It’s been so long since he was a child that the feeling is foreign. 

He clears his throat, and shifts, the leather of the dark, sea urchin couch crackling in sound. “Yeah,” he replies, his eyes still focusing on the rough material of his pants. It was this or jumping through hopes to prove himself, and he doesn’t have the energy to play monkey. When he doesn’t continue, she sighs, and he bites his cheek. He doesn’t want to know what she’s thinking.

She taps her fingers on the wood of her desk. There’s a sound of her opening a drawer and shuffling through papers, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer. “I’m going to ask you some questions, Dave. It would be in your best interest if you answer honestly.” He can feel her stare burning through his lenses and he tries to swallow the lump around his throat. He nods, she already went over this when she proposed the activity to him. 

“What was your relationship like with your parents?”

She’s starting out easy, which is good. He wouldn’t be able to stay if she brought out the big guns on the first round. “It was alright. I lived with my dad, cause my mom didn’t have any custody, but sometimes I would see her on the weekends and we would hang out with no prying eyes and detectives recording our shit. Pretty sure we weren’t allowed to do that, but she wasn’t hurting me. She was just… lonely. She buried herself alive and she forgot how to do the magic trick where she appears out of nowhere, completely unscathed, and laughing at the wowed faces of the audience.”

There’s a scribbling of pen on paper. He regrets agreeing to this, but this is a better consequence than never seeing the kids again. He’s confused why she would want to do this. She’s not a licensed therapist. 

“Were you closer to your mother or father?”

He curls his fingers over the denim. “Mom,” he admits reluctantly, his skin prickling with ice and a cold feeling of shame washes down his back. He doesn’t remember the last night he visited her grave. “She would take me out for ice cream and she didn't give a fuck about what anyone thought, I remember she would wear Leopard coats and glitter shoes with a lab coat.” He finds himself yearning to smile. “She was badass.”

Miss Lalonde writes that down too. He’s beginning to hate that sound. Can’t she get a less scratchy pen? Maybe she’s doing it on purpose. “Do you know why your mother wasn't allowed custody of you?”

Dave shrugs, his faint smile gone, “I was young but… I know she had problems with drinking. So, I wasn't allowed to see her.” He doesn’t want to go for into detail, but she presses anyways. 

“But you did so anyways?”

There's a noticeable pause. He knows she's staring at him again. “Yeah.” 

“Did she ever get drunk around you?”

He closes his eyes and reminds himself that he's doing this for Dirk and Hal. He doesn't understand why she considers this a reasonable questionnaire, he didn't sign up for a knockoff therapist, but he'll have to deal. He guesses he's been quiet long enough that she grew bored, because she asks a different question. “How are things for you right now, Dave?”

Somehow, that makes him bristle more. Defensive. He should lie and say that he’s living wonderfully, he eats full meals, and he goes to the movies with his friends every weekend like regular teenagers. Instead, he ducks his head down, and replies cooly, “What do you think?” 

A cornered animal most often will lash out. Dave's tired, running on empty, and he needs to find somewhere safe that'll allow him to live with the twins, and he doesn’t know what answers she wants. He feels the pressure building up behind his eyes, and he squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath.  _ Move onto something else,  _ he pleads with her, words only shown through his tense body posture. 

“...Roxy mentioned that you get a lot of bruises. Those are from your foster dad, aren't they?”

He doesn’t say anything. 

“Dave?”

Dave opens his eyes and sees his hands curled into fists. He counts the scars, thin and white and red and pink. He wonders if he should count five things he sees and so on, he remembers his mom telling him that; her bubblegum cotton candy eyes softening at him, her cinnamon scent swallowing him, and her breath smelled of alcohol as she taught him a lesson on how to calm down. He can’t remember past five though, it’s been so long. 

A hand rests on his shoulder and he jerks away from it. “What does this have to do with Dirk and Hal?” He chokes, pressing himself into the back of the armchair. It’s soft leather. Miss Lalonde stands over him, frowning, her forehead wrinkled with- displeasure? Annoyance? She straightens back and leans against the corner of her desk. “I just want to get to know you. I should’ve done this in the beginning, but I was busy and overlooked your relationship with Diederik and Hal.” 

He grits his teeth. “It’s Dirk. Just Dirk. He can’t stand being called Diederik.” She should know that; has she spent any time with him in the four months they’ve been there? She pursed her perfect, ebony black lips, and sighs deeply through her nose. It doesn’t look very lady-like on her, he feels compelled to point out. Just to piss her off. 

“Dirk then. How’s your relationship with him?” 

He relaxes. “Great. He’s a really smart kid, and he’s just, awesome. He already knows so much about technology and he’s only seven. Uh, if you haven’t already considered it, I think he, and Hal, should be moved up some grades. Hal can do  _ my _ math homework and Dirk’s dancing around everyone in English. They’re just really smart kids.” He smiles down at his hands. He can talk about them for ages, he feels so much pride surrounding them.

Miss Lalonde nods. “I see.” It’s the first time he sees her smile. “I suppose I can forget about the gun incident,” he visibly brightens up, “ _ If  _ we share these talks once every month.” He sighs. He… doesn’t want to, but anything for the twins. 

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is my tumblr: [so we can talk about this fic there](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/livingpastlivesiswhoiam)


	3. eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She holds his hand like she always done, and her voice is fond when she looks down at him. "Remember to always check both lanes of the road before crossing. Ok, Davey?" He smiles and tightens his grip, "Okay, mama."  
> They cross to the park, where only the teenagers who smell like what mama smokes and kids the same age as Dirk and Hal hang out, and when she stops to buy him ice cream. He proclaims he wants chocolate. Like he does every time.

They’re sharing an ice cream at the children’s park next to the old, boarded up liquor store with the broken glass windows and overgrown weeds. He remembers she used to go in there when the sun was turning an orange hue and buy him his sour patch candy with a red lollipop, leaning over the grimy counter and smiling flirtatiously in a way he’s only seen grown ups do. But the store closed up years ago and he never knew why. Loss of money or cops swarmed it, he wasn’t sure. 

The sweet, rocky road chocolate rapidly drips down from his waffle cone, and he rushes to lick it before it coats his skinny fingers, but he fails and ends up with the sugary sweet smeared on his cheeks. His mother doesn’t seem to notice. She fluffs his hair with her cold hand, scratching his skull with her long, brightly colored nails, and she looks off to the distance, her eyes hazy and red. He doesn’t mention it like how she doesn’t mention the low grades on his report card, because this isn’t the first time she wasn’t completely there, so now he shrugs it off without a second concerned thought.  

“Baby,” her tone is soft and fond and it captures his attention immediately, “Where are your brothers?”

He offers her some of the sickeningly sumptuous treat, but she shakes her head slowly in answer and her painted gold hoop earrings disappears in the platinum blonde of her hair for just a second. She asks this every time and he answers the same, a clockwork repetition that’s easier to follow than the numbers and equations of his homework. Two times ten equals Mama’s blotchy pink eyeshadow, not twenty.

“They’re at the daycare, mama.” She sighs and nods, looking over to him to smile. 

There’s a smudge of black on her teeth; most likely transferred from her ebony lipstick. He wishes she wouldn’t wear that. John, his seat partner at school, says only demons and vampires wear black.

“Okay, next time, bring ‘em.” She says this every time too, but he never does. He’s smart enough to know that she’ll drop Dirk when her attention gets snatched away by a stray bird, or get frustrated at Hal when he starts grabbing at her jewelry because he thinks it’s shiny. “And we could have a cool person party, ain’t that right, baby?”

He nods and fistbumps her when she holds it out. The rings hurt, but he smiles brightly because she’s smiling at him like he’s the center of her universe and he likes it when she calls him baby cause... His dad doesn’t really do that anymore. 

She cups the back of his neck, her fingers threading through the small baby hairs and one or more of her rings snagging on the blond stands, to drag him close. It causes him to hold the ice cream awkwardly out to the side so it doesn’t ruin her red, sparkly shirt, and she peppers light kisses on the top of his head. “I love you, Davey.” 

She plants a wet, sloppy kiss on his forehead and he grins outright, echoing it back to her. She’s cuddly this week, which isn’t bad, since he soaks up all the attention she gives him. Like a leech. (Some things never change.) “You wanna go on the slide?”

He snorts, prepared to respond with a comment on how he doesn’t need her to hold his hand, but his father’s voice roars over the parking lot, the bicycle path, the small, white daisies, and the field of grass where sometimes they would play soccer. He’s a lion who’s lost his cub, only this time he mistook his cub for prey. Dave pushes away from his mom, guilt swimming in his mouth because of her heartbroken expression, and hops down from the picnic table.

The dirt bursts up around him and settle on his new shoes he got for simply not getting in the way. His father stomps towards them, crushing daisies and clovers under his fancy, leather business shoes. He’s wearing the blue suit today, the one that brings out his brown eyes and draws attention away from the bags under his eyes and wrinkles on his forehead. 

“Dave, go to the car.” He orders when he reaches them, staring down at the short, eight year old, and Dave stares back. He doesn’t spend enough time with his father to be intimidated by him, or a lack of time to fear him. His father is too busy to even remember how to spell his middle name. 

He knows he’s not allowed around her, but he doesn’t see the problem. All she ever does is buy him sweets and sometimes cry. She drinks, and snorts, but she doesn’t hurt him. Sometimes she’ll even take him to the movies. “Mama-” He gets cut off by her and her sad smile, “Go, baby. I’ll be ok.” She leans over and ruffles his hair sweetly, but her demeanor is drastically different than how it was before. 

He deflates and trugs his way back to the car, past the crushed daisies and bike path. The dirt on his shoes seems stuck on and his shoelaces drag, but he doesn’t stop to tie them into the neat bows she taught him how to do.

He tugs the car door open to the backseat, crawling to the sounds of his baby brothers brightening up when they see him. Hal reaches out to him and he wiggles his fingers on his palm. He’s delighted to see his brothers, and he sits between them, his hand brushing over their heads like his mama does to him. Dirk recently got a haircut, and Dave knows his father took him to the old, gross smelling barber because it’s a buzzcut. 

“Why’s dad here,” he asks, softly, as he stares out the window. “Doc’ or point.” Hal answers for him and Dave’s heart settles heavily because his father wouldn’t know about his mom and his meetings if she didn’t take him out of school early. He didn’t know he had a doctor’s appointment, but then again, his dad never stops working long enough to tell him anything besides ‘watch your brothers’ or ‘scat.’

He kisses Dirk’s head gently. They’re arguing. His father’s waving his hands and pointing aggressively back to the car, Dave can faintly hear his voice rising. Mama is pinching the bridge of her nose, and one of her arms is curled around her midriff like it’ll shield her from her ex-husbands anger.

He wishes he could hear what they’re saying.


	4. sixteen

He scratches at his arm. The bright, oversaturated colors of the bags of chips blend together and he doesn’t know if he’s looking at UTZ All-Natural Potato Chips or Uncle Ray's Nacho Cheese Tortilla Chips. The off brand chips are cheaper, text-heavy, and bigger. He reaches out and fumbles for the Doritos, since they’re having a two for one sale and his stomach rumbles eagerly for the artificial cheese.

He doesn’t get to eat regularly at Miss Lalonde’s, partially because sometimes she’ll forget to stock her fridge in the middle of a deadline and partially because the housekeeper/unpaid nanny cooks the kids’ dinner and breakfast and sometimes lunch. That wouldn’t be an issue if the housekeeper liked him, but she’s accused him of stealing money more than once.    
Dave’s skinny and frail, like a baby bird that’s been abandoned by it’s parents, not full and healthy like all of the jocks in his grade, with their bulging arms and disgusting smirks. He’s all stick and bones. Any food Bro brings in is either a trap or an apology. 

He cradles the bags under his arms and picks up an aj bottle before snatching up the My Little Pony gummies pack. Dirk’ll love these, small and chewable and brightly colored in little pony shapes. Even if he’s almost eight, another month to go and much too old to play with little kid things, he’ll like ‘em. 

Thinking of his twin, Dave grabs transformers crackers, and then a sparkly, pink playdough can for Roxy, gently dropping them into the basket. He eyes his load, mentally counting out the prices in his head as he heads to checkout, his scruffy, unappealing red knock-off converses squeaking on the orange white patterned floor. Abruptly, he loses track when he glances up from placing the plastic, off brand grocery store basket on the conveyor belt and sees the check-out man (as he liked to reference them as).

His mouth goes dry, and he immediately smooths his hands over his pants, repeatedly reminding himself not to get flustered. Just two bros. Chilling in an abandoned ABCs Market. Five feet apart cuz they’re not gay. Plus, Dave’s not exactly the type of person you would want to swoon. He’s too.. broken. And he sure as hell doesn’t want a fixer. 

“That’ll be thirteen dollars and fifty eight cents.” Carl, his laminated name tag on his right breast proclaimed, comments in a bored, uninterested tone. He’s leaning on the counter, scrolling through the explore page on Instagram, with his small and cracked phone in his left hand. Dave licks his lips. 

“You didn’t… uh, scan them.” 

Carl looks up, his eyes a dark, rugged brown that borderlines on red under eyebrows that pull together in probably frustration. Dave can’t blame him. “I know the prices already,” his puckered mouth mumbles, his body language tense and unwilling and Dave can’t blame him for that either. “But fine. I’ll fucking scan them.” 

Dave pulls out his wallet, too good looking for the rest of his look, a good leather wallet that was his father’s, though it’s seen better days from the years. He’s never had an employee of a store cuss in front of him, but he doesn’t mind it. If Carl’s having a bad day or that’s just how he is, Dave can’t tell him how to act for Dave’s benefit. Even if the kids were here, he would be a hypocrite to berate Carl cause Dave slips up with a few curse words here and there too.

Carl scans them almost aggressively before sighing. “Just like I said; thirteen dollars and fifty cents.”

He frowns as he flicks through the bills he has, which is a fuckload of ones, but not enough. Dammit, he thought he had more. He looks back up at the conveyor belt. “Kay. Uh, I’m gonna need to take off the aj, doritos, and ravioli cans.” Carl pulls them off, an unreadable expression on his face.

As Dave’s giving him the ones and the five, he asks, “Why the fuck are you buying kid’s crap? Seriously.”

Dave shifts, putting the wallet back in his pockets, and debates to answer it honestly or not. It doesn’t take more than two seconds for him to reply.  “I got younger siblings.” 

He’s sure it wasn’t a trick of the lighting when he saw Carl’s eyes soften and the man grumbles under his breath for a second. Man; he’s not so sure Carl is one, age-wise. Age wise, he could be anything from seventeen to twenty-seven. 

“Do you live with them?” There’s a long, dreaded pause after that and Dave imagines that if it’s measured, it would go on past any mile they could count. Stereotyping. Dave know he looks like a foster kid and he knows he is one. Dave looks poor with not more than a couple cents to his name. He’s not much more than the crumpled up pieces of trash that people leave in front of this convenience store. 

“Nah. The system split us up, but I visit them whenever I can.” Carl’s eyebrows are tensely pulled together and Dave swallows the urge to smooth them out with his thumb. 

“How old are they?”

Dave laughs, more of scoff, and digs the heel of his scruffy, knock-off vans into the floor. “What is this, an interrogation?” Carl’s eyes darken for a quick flash, narrow until he looks over at the register and fiddles with the buttons on the machine. Dave doesn’t pause for him to answer, and answers, “Eight. And seven.” Roxy isn’t technically his sister, but she’s family. 

He rubs the back of his head, fingers rubbing over the bump he got when he was slammed into the wall a couple of months ago. Hah, he guesses he’ll never have the picture head to be bald. He sighs at the crumpled five, Abraham Lincoln gazing at him with faded eyes. “Dirk and Hal, they’re twins.” He fought so hard to make sure they stayed together. If he can’t be with them, they at least got each other. 

He blinks. Squints his eyes and waves his hand at Carl. The man’s bagging up the items he requested to go off, the aj, doritos, and ravioli cans. His heart beats faster to the sound of confusion and anxiety when he catches him. “Hey, I said not to get that stuff. I can’t pay for it, Carl.”

Carl snorts. “I know. That’s why it’s on me.” His faint smile rapidly turns downwards into a sneer, “And my name is Karkat–with a K.” 

Dave lightens up. “Dave.”

It’s the start of an unlikely friendship.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  i take requests/questions/prompts. pls comment


End file.
